


A Dead End in Derry

by staylop120



Category: IT (Movies - Muschietti), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Pennywise (IT), Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Fluff, Georgie is alive, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Sonia Kaspbrak's A+ Parenting, Stenbrough centric, Summer, Summer Vacation, bill is emo, stan has cancer but it’s not a gigantic centerpiece you’ll see, they all kind of have issues, they may or may not want to kill sonia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-28
Updated: 2020-02-04
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:01:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22443733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/staylop120/pseuds/staylop120
Summary: Perhaps it’s a play on fate, or some God  testing just how far it can push Bill before he hits his limit.Because the boy standing at the top of the stairs knows him well, better-than anyone well, and shouldn’t be at the door of Bill’s workplace right now. As a matter of fact, he should be gone, far away from the town he was raised in, restarting everything. Restarting his life.Stan looked apologetic. He swallowed his pride.“I'm dying,” he says simply, and Bill instantly felt a chill go down his spine that he hadn’t for three years.“Again.”
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Bill Denbrough/Stanley Uris, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier
Comments: 3
Kudos: 31





	1. One

Present Day

If you asked Bill Denbrough what the worst thing about working at McCoy’s grocery store was, he’d probably have to wrack his brain for a few minutes to think of an answer. He liked the job- it was a mostly desolate supermarket, besides a few regulars and Richie coming in to bother him. Today, though, the store was especially vacant. Bill wasn’t easily bored, but at the moment he sat at his cashier booth, winding his fingers in and out of the phone cord and trying to keep his mind blank.

For no particular reason, per usual, he found himself thinking about Stan again. 

“It’s fucking stupid, Bill.” Richie would say over and over, on the days where Bill would lay flat on the ancient yellow couch in Richie’s living room. On those days, Bill would stare at the ceiling, wallowing in his own pity and regret, trying to exterminate any recollection of the summer that was ingrained into his memory. An urn, a junkyard dog, a sweet ice cream seller that loved new kids on the block. He tried to forget when Bev had first cut her hair, and he tried to forget when the water in the quarry was still crystal clear and inviting. But most of all, he tried to forget Stan. Stupid, unattainable, lovable Stan, with the scars on his chest and a cannula, draped around his ears. Stan, who said to Bill on the first day he met him “Don’t get too attached to me, Red. I'm gonna die.”

Stan didn’t die. 

So now, Bill sat at his cashier booth, reminiscing about the summer he’d rather forget, and the boy who took his heart and rung it out like a washcloth full of water. 

So, when the bell to McCoy’s rang, signaling a customer’s entrance, he pulled the usual and flicked his eyes up steadily to the underground door.

He was not expecting to see Stanley at the top of the stairs.

That Summer

Beverly Marsh rarely rode her bike. 

It was an old, rusty Shwinn that had once belonged to her mother. The seat was much too high and the handlebars were so loose that it was a mystery as to how they didn’t come right off on the few occasions she broke it out.

On the anniversary of the day Eddie Kaspbrak’s father died, however, she had grabbed the ancient thing without hesitation. It wasn’t a text, it wasn’t a call, it wasn’t even an instant message. It was simply a feeling, one she got in her chest when Eddie needed her. She didn’t initiate, she just knew. 

So Beverly Marsh flew, over the winding city roads of Derry, past the boarded up houses her mother had once told her to avoid. She passed McCoys, the underground market that everyone claimed had a rat infestation. She swerved through the richest part of Derry, a small section that she had always dreamed of living in.

Beverly Marsh was sixteen, and nothing came easy to her. She pedaled clumsily, but she pedaled for Eddie. She pedaled because it was May 31st, and Frank Kaspbrak was shot in the head twelve years ago today. 

When she got to the Kaspbrak household, she knocked three sharp raps on the door. When no one answered, she pulled at the handle, letting herself in.

Unsurprisingly, this turned out to be a remarkably bad idea.

———

Eddie thought he was just being stupid. He hadn’t had an asthma attack since he was what- eleven? And suddenly, the shortness of breath had come crashing down on him like a wave. He had been listening to the Elton John records he dug out of the dust in his attic, and lying face flat on his bed. He wasn’t even moving. There was nothing to provoke the attack.

But, as if by fucking fate, Beverly thew open his bedroom door, revealing him hunched over in the middle of his small and suffocating bedroom, about to hack out a lung.

“Jesus, Eds! What the fuck!” Bev exclaimed, but in an instant, she was at his side. She tried not to notice his dad’s old record player in the corner of the room, and she tuned out candle in the wind softly pulsing in the background. She simply focused on Eddie, a sweet, fragile boy, who was now crumpled in a heap on his alphabet carpet.

She swiped his inhaler off his desk and brought it to his lips.  
“Here, kid.” She said, silently urging him to take a puff.  
He did as Bev wished, and his breathing instantly became less shallow. 

Within minutes he was curled into Bev’s side, and the two sat like that for a while, neither one speaking. Bev drummed her fingers on Eddies arm.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” she finally inquired.

Eddie said nothing in response.

“I think we should, Eds.” Beverly said, rather gravely.  
“Because your mom is out, your dad died today, and you don’t have asthma.”

———  
“Thank FUCK Sonia wasn’t home. No literally Bev, thank fuck. Imagine if she saw you in Eddie’s bedroom. She would commit a fucking HOMICIDE”

It was 6pm, the summer sun was persistent in the sky, and telling Richie to go away was a lost cause at this point. He was stationed at the bottom of Bev’s apartment fire escape staircase, fiddling with the freshly broken chain on her bike.

“You know what today is, Rich” she mumbled, not wanting to ignite another monologue from the boy. This was a trying task.

“Frankie bit the bullet,” Richie started, in his best impression of a posh butler. “How sad, love. really sad.”

He didn’t glance up from his twiddling with the chain. Bev’s eyes burned holes into his back as he worked.

“You’re a real asshole, Richie. You’re supposed to be his best friend, and you didn’t even go check up on him today.” Bev’s mind flashed back to Eddie, lying flat on his carpet, and what he had said when he finally decided to speak.

God, I wish Rich were here.

The black haired boy looked up from his mechanical outlet and started at Bev, for the first time in hours, with an incredibly serious look on his face. “Yeah, so I could crack a joke at the wrong time and get thrown the fuck out of a window by the kid. It’s best I stay away from the serious shit.”

Bev started a counter argument, but was lost for words. She was more sad than angry. Richie and Eddie loved each other, in a special way, a way that Bev would never understand. It was unconventional, and it was especially trying on Richie.

“You can be serious with Stan.” She then said, bluntly and unintentionally, finally revealing the true motivation behind her attack on Richie’s sympathy issues.

“It’s funny,” Richie said, not meeting Bev’s eyes again (God, she hated when he did that) “Cause Stan is serious enough for the both of us. And it’s all in good fun, there’s nothing to really talk about when-”

“He has fucking cancer, Richie!” Bev exclaimed, finally letting her exasperated side show though. “You have to be serious with him at some point.” 

Bev was expecting a silence, but she wasn’t expecting such a hollow, empty feeling to take over her chest as she watched Richie at an uncharacteristic loss for words.

Richie finally snapped the chain into place. He looked grave. “He’s back home, you know.”

Bev bit her lip. “Good news or bad?” 

Richie shrugged. “All he says is that they’re laying off treatment for a while.” he looked distant, then added, “He still has to wear the nose thing.”

Bev winced. “I hate the nose thing.”

Richie conclusively met her eyes. “Don’t we all, darlin. Well, I've gotta go. I have a date with a cute boy at the creamery.”

Bev grinned. “I know you don’t.” she said tolerantly.

“Doesn’t hurt to try.” Richie said, flashing a smile to his companion who sat on the top stair. “See you tomorrow, Bevs.”

“And what makes you think I'll be around?” Beverly called from her position high above Richie, grinning.

“You’re always around!” yelled Richie in retort. “But it’s okay, so am I.”

———  
“Are you any good at writing poetry?

“Mhm?” Bill snapped his head up from his spot at the red picnic table where he was bent over his journal, scrawling sweet nothings. 

Bill was alone this time at the creamery. He usually came with his younger brother, but Georgie had a cold and his parents were fiercely protective. So Bill sat outside the shop, at his favorite table, the one with the chipped paint, his shitty earbuds plugged into the smartphone that his parents could barely afford to buy him for his 16th birthday. It was nearly 6pm, and the rundown mini golf course next to him provided an inspiration for a short story. 

Bill was in no way prepared for some stranger to ask him about poetry. 

Said stranger was dressed head to toe in a creamery employee’s uniform, his cheeks pink from the heat and possibly the embarrassment of talking to a mysterious regular. He had kind eyes, Bill noted. 

Is that what writers do? Do they note things?

“I've seen you writing here everyday.” the worker said, staring down at his sneakers as Bill took out an earbud. “And I was wondering if you could help me write a poem for someone.”

Bill’s heart felt caught in his chest. “Y-you’ve seen me ruh-writing?”

The employee was unaffected by the stutter as far as Bill could tell, his eyes still incredibly interested in today’s choice of footwear.  
“Yeah.” He said lamely, placing a hand on the back of his neck. “It’s cool, I mean, that you write. I think it’s awesome. I write too.”

Bill glanced up at the boy again. “Wuh-why are you a-asking me for huh-help then?”

“Because I'm in love” the boy blurted out, his already pink cheeks began to glow crimson. 

“And I have no friends. well, I have one, but I'm not actually sure if he’s real or not. You’ll know what I'm talking about if you meet him. And my mom said on the first day we moved here that if I see someone that I could spark a friendship with, I should go for the opportunity. And you’re here everyday I’m working, writing and staring at the little kids golfing. At first I thought it was really weird, but now I realize it’s beautiful in a way, because you’re lonely, like me, but I listen to new kids on the block when I'm lonely, and you stare at kids playing putt-putt. I think it’s brilliant.”

Bill scrunched up his nose, taking in the full effect of the monologue just presented to him. The boy sounded desperate, but he wasn’t exactly wrong.  
“Yuh-you sound like my parents.” he said, finally, after a moment of deliberation.

The employee looked dejected, now deciding to fiddle with his nametag, which read “Ben.” 

“I didn't say that wuh-was a b-bad thing,” Bill added quickly. “It’s just s-st-st-st-FUCK”

“I know it’s strange.” Ben said sympathetically, once again playing with his nametag.

Bill did not smile at the fact that Ben knew what he was trying to say, but his heart felt a bit more present in his chest. He squinted once again, rapping his fingers on the well loved leather cover of his journal.  
“Well, who is it that you’re in love with?”


	2. Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> :-)

Present Day

Ben Hanscom was the key in the ignition. Bill’s life had taken off after the day he met Ben, speeding through the fast lane, not halting until the day Stan had said goodbye.

The day Stan said goodbye. 

The day Stan said

“Hey.” The gaunt figure at the top of the stairs barley even whispered to Bill, who was still in a state of shock. 

Perhaps it’s a play on fate, or some God testing just how far it can push Bill before he hits his limit.   
Because the boy standing adjacent to him knows him well, better-than anyone well. And that boy should not be here right now, he should be gone, far away from the town he was raised in, restarting everything. restarting his life.

Stan looked apologetic. He swallowed his pride.  
“I'm dying.” he says simply, and Bill instantly felt a chill go down his spine that he hadn’t felt for three years.

“Again.”

“Is that what you came here for? To tell me?” Bill said, trying to lock eyes with his former companion. “I thought you were here for some canned tomatoes. They’re in season.”

“You’re acting like Richie.” Stan said in a bit of a disappointed tone. Bill’s blood boiled at that. Gone for three years and has the nerve to tell me how I’m acting.

“You’re acting like an asshole.” Bill let it slip out before he meant to. He wanted to apologize directly after, his heart sinking as he tugged at his sleeve. 

Instead of being offended at the jab, Stan just grinned. Not evilly, per say, but in a proud way, which confused Bill even more than he thought was possible.

“Your stutter.”

“Fuck you.” Bill cussed at Stan again, this time letting it roll off his tongue just like the loving phrases said three years prior. 

“It’s gone. That’s really cool.” Stan continued, pretending he hadn’t heard the curveball of an insult thrown at him seconds earlier. 

“Why are you here?” Bill finally asked. He wasn’t angry anymore, just puzzled and exhausted. His mind was running like a bullet train, weaving through every memory, possibility, and scenario he could think of.

“Because I'm dying. And I don't want them to know. And you’re off the grid.”

“Why don’t you want them to know?” Bill asked, in a considerably softer tone than his other comments.

“Cause they’ll wanna save me.” Stan said cooly, leaning against the wall instead of approaching Bill.

Bills face flushed red again, from his usual Stan-oriented anger.   
“How unfortunate.”

Stanley’s parents were the kindest people Bill had ever met, second to maybe Ben or some of Georgie’s kid friends.   
He didn’t understand it, how they could be so ever present and loving when their son was so small and weak and transparent. 

And he didn’t understand now why Stanley was refusing their aid. 

“I asked ‘why’ a lot when I was 16,” Stan said thoughtfully, sitting down in his place on the stairs.   
“Like, you know, ‘why me’ and all that shit. And I prayed to God, too. Even when I was hooked up to all those machines, I still never missed a prayer. One time, a nurse heard me talking Hebrew and thought I was having a stroke. It was funny, but in hindsight-“

“Stan. I asked why you were here, and all you said was that you’re dying. You need to elaborate.” Bill said finally, staring down Stan, who’s nervous tangents we’re usually the result of avoiding a topic.

“I relapsed,” Stan said simply.

“So why me, then?” Bill asked, his hands shaky now that he knew the whole truth. “Why did you come back now? I don’t know where you’ve been, for all I know, God Stan you could have been fucking dead, you didn’t text or call or anything and-“

It was now Stan’s turn to cut Bill off, his hand dragging through his curls, which finally looked healthy and thick again after the tragedy of his treatment three years prior. 

“I still love you” he said simply and bravely, and not at all like how he would have said it at 16.  
“And I need to talk to Richie.”

\-------------  
It was simple. Richie was Stan’s keeper.   
It was unspoken, but everyone knew it to be true. They knew that Richie loved Bev half to death, and would walk to the end of the earth for her. They knew that Richie adored Eddie with every ounce of his being. They knew that Richie would sometimes hug Ben tightly and claim he was never letting go, because he loved him so much. It was love, and personal closeness. 

Stan hated both of those things. 

But Richie, with Stan, was the most persistent of all. 

When Richie was fifteen, and had first heard the words “Thyroid, spread to lungs” in the context of his best friend, he had taken every box of cigarettes he owned and threw them into the mossy looking creek that flowed behind Eddie’s house. 

“That’s gross, Rich” Eddie had said disapprovingly, from his spot pressed against a tree on the wooded bank. “You’re gonna infect the water.”

Richie said nothing.

Richie rarely says nothing. 

Richie moved out of his house at 18.

He loved his parents. He owed them everything, really, but he had to get out and be alone. It was partially due to the Stan-shaped hole left in the fabric of his life, and partially due to Bill being one step away from a nervous breakdown. But it was mostly due to the fact that everything in his house reminded him of that summer, himself included. He would look at his own skin and see Bev’s bruises, Stan's scars, or Bill’s millions of freckles. He’d see himself doing things he regretted. He’d never see Eddie. 

God, where the fuck is Eddie?

It’s not like Richie didn’t wonder about this often. Stan left, then Mike, then Ben, who still sent Beverly postcards sometimes. It was Eddie that held on the longest. He was the last.

It was a kiss on Richie’s cheek that accompanied Eddie’s departure. It wasn’t a text, it was a note, a handwritten scrawl saying that Sonia Kaspbrak had been admitted to Derry Psychiatric Hospital, and that Eddie had to go somewhere, just far away. Richie didn’t blame him. He probably hated Eddie’s mother more than Eddie himself did. That’s why they tried to do what they did that summer. 

But Eddie was rarely heard from. He still talked to Bev on occasion. One day, a few months ago, he called Bev and left her in a heap of tears. 

“Do you know the reason?” Bev managed to choke out. “The reason she’s in there?”

Richie shook his head gently, watching her with worried eyes. 

“She tried to kill him.” 

At that moment, Richie realized he wasn't just Stan’s keeper, but quite possibly everyone’s. 

Last Richie had heard, Eddie was somewhere out West with an aunt of his.   
Last Richie heard, Stan was in college in Boston.  
Last Richie heard, Mike was in Florida with his grandparents.  
Last Richie heard, Ben was a few towns over.  
Richie knows Bill sleeps in the attic of his parent’s house, pretending that he’s got everything figured out.  
Richie knows that Bev lives in a dorm, and still has to call him when she has a particularly jarring nightmare. 

And Richie lays on his large, empty bed, in his apartment at the corner of 5th and Westborough. His eyes stare blankly ahead of him. He is 19 years old, and all he wanted was to be alone. 

He’s not sure he wants that anymore.

That Summer

Mike never thought he could be this happy in an open field, blistering in the summer heat, but he was. There was nothing more important to Mike Hanlon, at the moment, than performing his best with the all-city marching band in the 4th of July parade. And he had to make every practice count. 

So he played his trombone as confidently as he could, the brassy tones perfectly on pitch, guiding the band to play with more spring in their step than they had the week previously. He loved riding into town once a week to rehearse. It was the only time he wasn’t confined to the farm, and he could see the shops and parks and side streets that all the kids would play in the hot summer air. Not once did he get jealous, or wish it was him, because Mike was 16 and his grandfather had told him he was too old to be making new friends in town and goofing around. Mike agreed, like he did with his grandfather on most everything.

But still, Derry felt nice under the wheels of Mike’s ringer with the bell on the left handle, as he rode home that day after practice. The town always seemed happy, peaceful, and quiet.

And then he heard gunshots. 

Mike’s instant reaction was to pedal straight off the face of the earth- faster than he ever had before, but when he heard the scream following the blasts, he had dismounted and ducked into the alley from where he suspected they were coming from. 

It was two boys and one girl, all three looked like they’d been caught in the headlights of a semi-truck. A pyramid of cans were stacked in front of them. One boy was taller, with greasy-looking hair and broken glasses. The other boy was short and scrawny, but looked more put together. The latter was clutching a small handgun against his hip. The girl was sitting on a wooden crate, and before Mike had come along, she had been looking rather bored. Mike didn’t know how to react. 

“It’s not mine,” was the first thing the smaller boy said, his eyes wide with fear, “It really isn’t, swear. It was my dad’s and I-”

Mike didn’t really need an explanation after he realized no one was in danger, but his feet were still rooted to the spot on the cobbled road, and his mouth was dry as the desert. He probably looked stupid, his trombone sticking out of the worn satchel on his back. The boy with glasses paid this no mind. 

“Hey! You wanna try one?” he asked, losing the fearful expression after seeing Mike wasn’t an adult. “We’re fucking bored,” he motioned the the gun “and this shitty thing only fires blanks.”

The girl finally made eye contact with Mike, causing his kneecaps to turn to liquid. She was beautiful, the sun reflecting off her long red hair casting a shadow onto the wall behind her. She had freckles splayed across her nose, a crooked smile, and a black eye.

“Shut up, Richie,” she said to the boy with the glasses, smirking. She turned to Mike. “Who are you? I haven’t seen you around.”

“Mike” he said, as lamely as possible, perpetually wishing that the feeling would return to his legs. “I’m from out of town. Here for band.” 

The girl grinned. “I love the all-city band. Are you guys playing in the parade this year?”

Mike nodded, with a dry swallow. 

“You seem smart.” the boy with the glasses- Richie, Mike guessed, observed from where he was standing. “Are you?”

“My grandfather says not to boast.” Mike said quietly, looking at his feet. The girl giggled. 

“We need someone smart in our gang. And not mean-smart like Stan.” Richie waxed, looking Mike in the eyes. 

The smaller boy, who hadn’t spoken the whole time, glanced up at him. “Rich, you can’t just ask him to join. Look, you’re scaring him. And-”

But Mike was smiling, the warm glow of satisfaction in his chest, looking at the three misfits. 

“I’d love to join your gang.” he said, with more confidence than he usually exudes. Mike Hanlon rarely ever talked to other 16 year olds. 

The girl was grinning from ear to ear now, taking a step closer to Mike. “Meet us at the quarry on Tuesday. 2 pm. Are you afraid of heights?”

Mike shook his head. 

“Good. I’m Bev, by the way.” she said, taking his calloused dark hand in her pale small one, with nails bitten down to the flesh.

It was then Mike realised Richie had a joint in his right hand, smelling it as he crossed over. “Names Richie.” He said without needing to, patting Mike on the shoulder. “And that neurotic infant over there is Eds.” He pointed at the mousy, nervous looking boy. Mike laughed. 

“Is not.” The smaller boy said, pushing forward. “It’s Eddie. My name is Eddie.” 

He turned to Richie after he too finished shaking Mike's hand. “Jackass.” He said, 

Mike laughed again, becoming slightly more comfortable now that he knew they were just a ragtag group of teens -his age- that didn’t have a loaded gun with them. He checked the watch on his left wrist, however, and realized that his grandfather would be expecting him soon. He took a step backwards. 

“I'll be there.” He said, reckoning that he could just tell his grandfather that he had an additional band practice that day. “On Tuesday, I mean.”

\----  
On the subject of being told you were going to die, Stanley Uris was taking it surprisingly well. 

Maybe the reality hadn’t hit him yet- or maybe there was still a little hope burrowed in his chest. But either way- he didn’t cry. Not at all. Note even a little bit, even when his father had. His mother cried all the time, but like his son, Stanley’s father was a man of stoic composure. Seeing him cry, surely, would break Stan.

But it didn’t. Perhaps it was the lighthearted manner in which the doctor gave the news to him. It was reminiscent of the announcement a few months back that the chemo wasn’t working- presented in the form of a lame joke about saving Stan’s hair. Stan didn’t laugh at this- he’d be okay with losing his hair if it meant he would lose the cancer too.

But three months ago, they had been told that the chemo had proved ineffective. That meant Stan would have to go to second-line treatment with radiation. 

After eight weeks and an extended scan, the doctor had informed Stan’s parents that there seemed to be no positive effect from the radiation. 

“If you look at the scan from two months ago to now- you almost don’t see any difference.” Dr. Peterson had said. Stan’s mother had made a single, heartbroken noise at that point, prompting the doctor to continue.   
“But it could be a lot worse- the cancer isn’t growing. This is good news- it means that Stanley’s body might just need a break from the constant treatment to get the radiation into his system.”

So that was why Stanley was home- in his room, in his bed, with a bookshelf to his left and a desk to his right, and yet he still felt foreign. The cannula in his nose had taken some getting used to- as his lungs grew weaker with the chemicals being pumped into them, he started to depend on supplementary oxygen- but it wasn't as big of a travesty as he thought it would be. His tank was small enough to fit in a backpack- meaning he could still go out with his friends. 

His friends, oh how he missed them. Richie had stopped by the day he’d arrived home, with his sloppy grin and kind eyes. He had ignored the addition of the oxygen to the best of his ability and sat at the end Stan’s bed, rattling off the week’s newest gossip. Stan patiently listened. He never interrupted. 

Richie, Eddie and Bev had all asked if he wanted to go to the quarry on Tuesday. He couldn’t swim anymore- they knew that- but it was nice for them to think of him, anyways. He figured he'd spread a nice towel out on a flat rock and soak up the sun. 

But here he was- on Monday night- and he still felt out of place. His mother had come up to help him out of the shower, and had pressed her lips quickly to his hair before he climbed into bed. His mother wasn't as talkative as she used to be- Stan knew that well enough. It hurt his heart a little, but he tried to ignore it.

His dad hadn’t said goodnight to him. Stan could hear him in the kitchen, talking Yiddish on the phone with his grandparents. It was muffled and Stan wasn’t fluent, so he couldn’t exactly hear all of what his father was saying, but he caught snippets that sounded upset. Stan felt like a bit of a voyeur to his father’s sadness. He shouldn’t be listening, he thinks. He needs sleep.

He felt foreign in his own home, like an elephant in the room that no one could forget about. His thoughts bounced in his head like a game of ping pong. What if the radiation doesn’t ease into his system? What if the tumors are still the same size next month? What if the next time he comes in for treatment, Dr. Peterson looks at him with sad eyes and says that there’s nothing more they can do?

He shouldn’t be here, Stan thinks. His house doesn’t feel like home.   
He frowned into his pillow, and closed his eyes for the final time that night.

\---  
As much as Bill hated to admit it- he likes hanging out with Ben.

He’d branded himself a lone wolf the minute he stepped foot into his old elementary school. Kid’s attention spans were short- too short to deal with Bill’s frustrating stutter. That, combined with the fact that he didn’t have much to say in general- made him an outcast. Bill didn’t mind- without other kids bothering him, he had more time to work on the stories in the back of his math notebook and watch the clouds.

But Ben was different. He didn’t poke or prod to get Bill to talk to him all the time, he wasn’t invasive about Bill’s writing, and, most importantly, he gave Bill a free scoop of butter pecan every time he came by to the creamery. He was a good, kind person, which Bill had been around very few of. 

But he was also hopeless.

Bill had noticed the redhead girl- it was impossible not to, as whenever she passed by on her bike Ben’s face would fall numb with adoration. 

It was easy for Bill to pick up on the fact that this was who Ben was writing all of his poetry for. Bill had to give one to him- the girl was pretty. So pretty, in fact, that Bill- for a split second- felt a hot boiling rage in his chest when Ben gushed about her. But it was just for a second. Bill had more pressing matters on his mind.

“I can g-get off to buh-both guys and girls, I think,” Bill said one day to Ben, at their creamery table, tracing a freckle cluster on his own arm. It’s not like he was embarrassed of the fact, he’d just never told anyone about it. He never felt like he had to tell anyone, that is, but after a week or two, it seemed natural that Ben should know.

Ben snorted for a second after the fact, covering his mouth instantly. Bill, usually secluded and immune to laughter, grinned up at him.   
“That’s fine, Bill,” Ben giggled. “But I don’t need to know what you get off to.”

Bill giggles too, for the first time that summer, because he knew he should have phrased it differently. Bill knew he was impulsive, and commandeering, and sometimes rude, but he still was able to laugh at himself. He liked Ben, he thought, because Ben was able to laugh at himself too.

However, the hopeless romantic characteristic still overshadowed most things about him. 

Bill was squinting at the page of his journal on Monday night, right after Ben’s shift had ended. The latter was sitting adjacent to Bill, tapping his foot in a neurotic way. 

“I’m off tomorrow.” he says.

Bill looked up with hooded eyes.

“I think we should go to the quarry.”

“The wuh-what?” Bill asked, now with his full attention on his friend’s pink tinted face.

Ben ignored the essence of Bill’s question.   
“It’s supposed to be hot tomorrow. And you’ve never been. It will be fun.”

Bill hummed in disagreement, but Ben seemed keen on the idea already. 

“D-Does redhead guh-go to the quh-quh-quarry?” Bill asked, after a few seconds of silence.

“Shut up.” Ben said to him softly, his small smile revealing everything Bill needed to know.

Bill was rolling his eyes lovingly at his friend now.   
“God, yuh-you could’ve juh-j-just said s-so, Benny.”

Ben was dark red, and Bill couldn’t help but flash a rare grin. 

“A-Anything to help you wuh-win your love, Buh-B-Ben. I’ll g-go.”

Ben smiled weakly at Bill, a relieved expression on his face.

“Thank you,” he said quietly “I wanted to give her one of my poems. My buddy Richie told me they’d be there tomorrow,” he sighed for a second “But she comes with her friends.”

Bill looked thoughtfully at Ben for a second. “Wuh-Well s-so are you. With y-your buh-buh-buh-best friend Big Bill, wh-whos going to g-g-get you a kuh-kiss from a little redhead like it’s your d-d-d-dying wuh-wish.”

“Big Bill?” Ben asked, almost instantly and with a smile. “Is that what people called you back home?”

Bill shook his head. “I nuh-never let other p-p-people duh-duh-decide what they s-should call me. See you tuh-tuh-tomorrow, Benny.”

And with that, Bill soluted the larger boy and hopped on his bike to head home.

As he’s riding, he feels the brake come loose.

Piece of shit. He thinks.

Tomorrow, I’m gonna steal my dad’s car.

\-----  
Eddie was the first one in their group to drive, which made Stan chuckle every time he thought about it. Bev was the oldest, with Richie not far behind, but neither of them saw any point in getting their license.

But as soon as Eddie turned 16 in May, he had flown to the nearest DMV to take the test. He passed- of course, with flying colors, much like the tests he took in school.

Stan wondered why Eddie was so keen on being able to drive.

But it became apparent that summer, because it was the summer Eddie finally started hating his mother. Stan, Richie, and Bev had all concluded that they hated Sonia long ago, but it took longer for Eddie to realize how awful she truly was. When he did realize- he started driving. 

It was a ‘87 Chevy in Richie’s garage that his father had been meaning to fix up for ages- the window cranks didn’t work and the interior smelled like smoke- but Eddie didn’t care. He and Richie tinkered with it every day until June, when it was finally ready to hit the road.

So now, Stan sat in the back of the old, dusty machine, absentmindedly drumming his fingers of the glass of the window. He felt accomplished. He hadn’t thrown up his breakfast that morning.

As they headed to the quarry, Richie made idle chatter. Stan knew- anyone with a brain knew- that it wasn’t the same as it used to be. But he could try. He wanted to try, because then maybe things would get better and go back to normal.

He felt a hand slip between his fingers.   
“You’re thinking too loud.” Bev proclaimed softly, moving closer to him in the back seat. “You okay?”

“Mhm,” Stanley said then, without much thought. 

“We don’t have to swim, you know. I won’t even.” She looked at her nails for a second, and then glanced back up at Stan.  
“We met a cute boy last week. He’s coming too.”

Stan grinned a bit at this. “Oh, so you’ll be preoccupied?” 

Beverly leaned her head against Stan’s shoulder, avoiding the cannula and giggling. “No,” she said “But you might be.”

In Richie’s own words, him, Eddie and Bev “Knew Stan was gay before he even did.”   
Stan would disagree with that fact, because he’d always known- he just had tried to keep it deep down, locked inside of him for as long as possible. 

But, like most things, it was different after he got sick. Silly things like being gay and being worried about what people might think of you paled in comparison to the taunts of death that were thrown in his face on a daily. It had gotten to the point where he simply didn’t care anymore- who knew, what they knew- anything of the sort. He just wanted to live his life.

As the teens in the car pulled up to the quarry through the back passage they had discovered as kids, they- Stan especially- were surprised to see people were already there, taking up the space the four had proclaimed as their own. 

It was two boys, who looked blank in anticipation. They were sharing earbuds off of a shitty smartphone, and the one closer to Stan had his eyes closed, and was swaying with the music. 

He remembered Beverly- who had said they had invited a cute boy to the quarry with them. He had snorted at that, but regretted it when he saw the boy nearest to him turn around. 

He had a soft, sad face, and choppy red hair. His skin was so freckly he almost looked tanned, and his cheeks were pink. A worn yellow t-shirt clung to his skinny frame, and his shorts looked like an attempt at cutoffs made by a blind butcher. 

This was obviously not who Beverly was talking about, Stan thought. 

Jusr some stupid teens he’d never seen before hanging around. Probably smoking, which would send Stan right back home in an instant. 

“It’s not worth respiratory failure.” His brain would chide.

But the two weren't smoking. The one he had ignored previously looked nervous. He was bigger and even sadder looking than the other boy, was clutching a small square of paper and was looking at the four, now exiting Eddie’s car, with large prey-like eyes.

Then Richie, of all people, grins and bites his lip.   
“Haystack!” He said, clumsily, rolling out of the passenger's side and gesturing at the bigger boy. “You brought a friend!”

Richie. Stan thought. Goddamn Richie.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Archive was being hella sketchy earlier but I finally got this posted!
> 
> Comment and leave kudos for a cookie.

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t have a tumblr, twitter, or any other social media, but I promise I’ll update.  
> This started out as a completely original short story for my english class but it just tuned into a summer of self-discovery with my favorite losers.
> 
> ALSO! in “That Summer” the losers are 16, and in “Present Day” they’re about 18-19, just for reference. I promise the 2 timelines going on at once will be easier to understand once we get a few chapters in.


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